


Under My Skin

by apathetiic



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arkham Asylum, Eventual Smut, M/M, Psychiatrist Bruce, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-10-13 10:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathetiic/pseuds/apathetiic
Summary: Bruce is a new intern at Arkham Asylum, and is assigned to Joker’s case.---“I’m flattered, honestly, I had no idea you were so interested in me, Bruce.”Bruce stopped tapping his pen.“Starstruck?”“No.”“Then what are you?” The grin that had been present for most of the session disappeared from his face. He looked intimidating in the darkness of the room, his face obstructed by strands of hair and shadows. Bruce’s heart beat faster.“Just interested.” Bruce stated, his voice measured.





	1. Internship and Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a sideline batjokes fic that I'm working on along side my Friends fic and One is a Wanderer (which I'm currently rewriting)
> 
> If you like this concept, please leave a comment telling me you'd like to read more, I have a story sketched out for this AU and I'll write more if you're interested!!

Bruce Wayne had followed in his father's footsteps when he grew up.

After their deaths, he had to live up to his parents memory. To do what was expected of him, what Gotham and his publicists wanted. And even though he loved his parents, a squeaky clean lifestyle was boring, so he tried the playboy thing out for about a month or two. It didn’t end well, he ended up with a heart broken by a particularly leggy Russian ballerina that couldn’t have cared less about him. 

So he went back to school. First he tried getting a business degree, knowing that he would eventually sit on the board of Wayne Enterprises. That fell through, terribly. No one wanted to invest in luxury tours of ACE Chemicals. He should have seen that coming.

And after that he tried med school, like his father, and more specifically, he tried psychiatry. It was a natural progression, ever since his parents death he had hid a growing, sometimes morbid fascination with the criminally insane as a way of coping. Besides, Gotham had a high demand for the profession, for obvious reasons. 

The psychiatry department was an unusual place to study. Gotham University as a whole was one of the finest institutions on the East Coast but the psychiatry department was a void of weird. Half of the students there wanted to pick his brain until it was little more than a few scraps of gray matter. Whenever he tried to talk someone his parents always came up in conversation, usually intentionally.

“And how does that make you feel?” They would ask about his unresolved childhood trauma. Just Great.

The other half had an obsession with Gotham’s criminal population, Bruce considered his interest in the deviant side of the city detrimental at best, destructive at worst. Nonetheless, he fit into this category. However, he paled in comparison to some of the more intense people in his classes. Hybristophilia in the psychiatry department was like the plague, contagious and unavoidable. It didn’t help that halfway through Sophomore year the professor, Crane, decided to take up the alter ego of Scarecrow. More than a few love letters were sent to the disgraced professor in Arkham. 

But between the people who wanted to be his psychiatrist, and those who just wanted to get in the pants of Gotham's renowned criminals, Bruce had carved out a little spot for himself, with even a few friends that didn't care about the Wayne name. He had even published his first paper by the end of freshman year, and now he had a summer internship at the end of his junior year.

Alfred had gone completely white when Bruce told him he would be taking the internship at Arkham.

“Do you know how much danger you’ll be in, Master Bruce?” Alfred had said, propping himself up by holding the curtains in Bruce’s study until his knuckles went white.

“I won’t be in general population or anything, I’m not an orderly,” Bruce said, trying to ease Alfred’s nerves. 

“Thank heavens,” Alfred sighed, but Bruce could still tell his caretaker had doubts, since he still hadn’t let go of the curtains.

“See, I’ll be like a doctors PA there, helping them with the patients, taking notes, listening to sessions, gathering research, hopefully so I can write another paper in the future.” Bruce explained, trying to make the internship seem as mundane as possible. But that was far from the truth, it was common gossip at the university about the summer internship, apparently you had to take self defense classes before they let you step into the Asylum. That wouldn’t be a problem for Bruce, he already was, per Alfred's request. He had also heard a fair amount of stories about students coming back, completely dropping out of the University, some were admitted into the Asylum themselves. Apparently in the 60s, an intern was torn to pieces during a riot in the Asylum. This did not discourage Bruce from accepting the job, and oddly made him more excited to take on the challenge.

“Arkham can barley guarantee the safety of its own patients, let alone its staff,” Alfred sputtered, Bruce felt a tinge of guilt hiding the true risks of the job from him.

“I’ll be working with this lady, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, she’s supposed to be a revolutionary over there, she’s one of the doctors the patients are supposed to like. I’ll be safe.”

“That woman is a fraud Bruce, she’s simply there for publicity, and she's already had her five seconds of fame, who knows what she'll do to get another five?” Alfred let go of the curtain to point at Bruce. “You’re a grown man, and by know you should have a good enough head on your shoulders to see that this is a bloody stupid idea.”

Bruce paused, and said in a cautious tone, “I’ve already accepted the offer, Al.”

“Dear God.” Alfred said, bringing a hand to his forehead.

“Listen,” Bruce stood and walked over to the old butler, and placed a hand on his shoulder. His heart ached, he hated to bring Alfred any stress. “I’ll quit as soon as I see anything suspicious. I’ll quit at the drop of a hat, I just don’t want you worrying about me everyday.”

Alfred drew in his lips in concentration. “Fine. At the first sign of trouble, you’ll quit?”

“It’s a deal.”

“Deal,” Bruce could still sense some displeasure in his voice.

The week after that was his first shift at the Asylum.

He had expected the place to be dilapidated. But up close, it was clear to see that Arkham was rotting from the inside out. He couldn’t even get past the front gates, with an intern ID, without a bribe for the guard. 

Even in a bright June afternoon, with the rest of the city in bloom, Arkham was a dark stain on the city’s skyline. The island the Asylum sat on was overgrown with old flora that hadn’t seen a groundskeeper in years. Tendrils of ivy had grown over most of the windows of the Asylum, seeping into the cracks in the old stone, pouring out of gargoyles mouths. Arkham conformed to the city’s Gothic architecture, but it still looked like it belonged on the cover of Dracula rather than a cityscape.

Being built the late 1800s, the building had no central air conditioning. The place was sluggish with that familiar sticky summer daze that ran through Gotham in the warmer months, and Bruce could barely keep his eyes open in the lobby of the place, ambivalently fanning himself with a ‘Welcome!’ brochure. He was sure he was going to drop dead of heat exhaustion rather than being stabbed by an unruly patient with a vendetta.

“You’re Wayne?” said a voice.

Bruce forced his eyes to open.

Standing in front of him was Harleen Quinzel. She was a notable figure in Gotham’s psychiatry community, mainly for her controversy. Some said that she had cheated her way through school to come to Arkham to write were essential tabloid books on Arkham’s inhabitants. She was a published author, and had only written one book on her time in Arkham, it wasn’t totally fictitious, but it wasn’t authoritative enough to be taken seriously in the medical community. What Bruce knew about her was that she studied under Crane before he ended up in the Asylum, had advocated for better living conditions of Arkham's inhabitants, had rehabilitated a few of the more famous patients in the Asylum, and was rumored to have an affair with a patient, but the patient was unspecified.

“Uh- yeah?” He said, setting the brochure down.

“The intern?”

“Yeah.”

“ID?” she said, holding out a hand. Her nails were manicured, painted black.

“Here,” Bruce said, placing the card in her hand.

She swept a piece of blonde hair behind her ear as she scrutinized the photo, peering at it with blue eyes through a pair of horn rimmed glasses.

“Thought you would have more to say." She said offhandedly. Bruce didn't think that she had given him a chance to speak. "Alright, let’s get going,” She was from the inner city, he could tell, her accent was so thick and nasally he almost had to ask her to speak twice. She threw the ID card back at him.

Bruce fumbled the catch, but tucked the ID card into his pocket. When he looked up, Quinzel was already halfway to the door leading out of the lobby, black heels clicking on the gray linoleum tiles. Bruce hurried to catch up to her.

“You signed the waiver, right?” She asked, holding a fingertip to touch pad near the door. Bruce notice the Wayne Tech logo. His family had given large sums of money to the Asylum over the years, most of it went to security. Although, it didn't seem to stop some of the place’s more enthusiastic members from escaping when they wanted to.

“Yeah.” He nodded, remembering the paper. Apparently if he got stabbed it was his fault. He wasn't terribly worried though.

“Good. Welcome to Arkham.” She gave a fake little smile, and the door behind her unlocked. Then she was on the move again, briskly walking through the dimly lit hallway. He could hear a dull buzzing from the lights overhead and shouts from deeper within the building. 

“Alright, Grand Tour.” Quinzel mumbled to herself. “There’s a lot to see.” She was very no nonsense, Bruce thought.

Branching off from the large hallway Quinzel was marching him down were rows upon rows of cells, each seemed to be equipped with a fingerprint sensor, as well as a small slot and a clouded over window that opened into the cell. Some doors seemed to be in worse shape than others.

“This is minimum security,” Quinzel began. “The casually criminally insane. Eighty-five percent of the population here suffers from some sort of schizophrenia, and there are about two hundred patients here. They’re pretty harmless, the warden has them on a mixture of Asenapine, Lurasidone and Xanax so they’re sedated most of the time. Very few of them are prone to violent outbursts, and they’re generally fine people if you know how to talk to them.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Security is on this floor as well.”

Bruce turned from Quinzel to try to get a look in to one of the cells, he saw a young woman a little older than him in one of the cells, dressed in the baggy uniform of the Asylum. Her expression was blank, and her eyes clouded over. This made his brow furrow. He had heard stories about malpractice in the Asylum, and Quinzel seemed to corroborate this idea. No doubt these patients seemed to be on a mixture of medicine that was far too strong for them. 

They continued walking, turning a corner and walking up a set of stairs. This hallway seemed to be filled with more light, as windows lined one side of the corridor. A few cell doors lined with walls opposite of the windows, and hallways branched off from where Quinzel and him stood.

“Medium security, about a hundred to a hundred fifty patients here. The number fluctuates more. Fifty percent are repeat offenders, more violent patients may see a specialized psychiatrist but most still attend group therapy. We’re understaffed, so we can’t give individualized treatment to everyone.” She pointed down the hallway, her manicured nail flashed in the fluorescent light, “Cafeteria is that way, as well as a few offices, outside you can see the courtyard. Minimum security prisoners and a few select medium security prisoners can spend time in the yard after meals, the library and common areas are available to outstanding patients. You might do some work with these people, maybe even run a session yourself.”

Bruce noticed more noise on this floor, patients were shouting through the doors at each other. Occasionally, there was a bang or a scraping sound. One wiry looking patient with tattoos around his mouth started banging on the Plexiglas window of his cell, shouting a few obscenities directed mostly at Quinzel. When Bruce acknowledged him, the man then began shouting at him.

“Rich boy! Wayne, c’mon, bet you don’t have a room like this in that mansion of yours, c’mon and see what it’s like, rich boy!” His voice was muffled through the glass.

“If they’re too unruly, security escorts them to solitary in the basement. It's best not to acknowledge unruly behavior.” With a quick flick of her wrist, a panel on top of the door to the patient's room fell down, hiding him from view.

“You’re a bitch, Quinzel!” Shouted the patient. This made Quinzel smirk to herself.

Again, Quinzel lead Bruce down a hallway, then to an elevator. The ride was smooth, and neither of them said anything. They reached the top floor of the asylum, and the elevator opened with a casual ‘ding’. There was a door separating them from the rest of the hallway, it seemed to be newer than anything else in the hallway, and Bruce could see his reflection in the polished steel of the door. Quinzel opened it with her fingertip.

The hallway was considerably darker than any other in the asylum, Bruce believed it was intentional. The whole floor seemed to be updated too, glowing LED lights, enhanced security, he could even feel the chill of air conditioning.

“This is Maximum Security.” Her voice was quieter. “We can hold fifteen patients here. Each holding cell is specialized to contain its specific patient. You might know them as supervillains. They’re the ones making the headlines, the ones the GCPD is hoping we’ll cure so we can ship them off to Blackgate for good.” Quinzel’s grip on the clipboard in her hand tightened. “Each cell is designed so that the patient cannot speak to the people around them, the whole cell is on display for security, there's even a  specialized security detail for this floor. This population is our most dangerous, several are serial murderers, many display traits of psychopathy on top of mental illness. They’re manipulative, intelligent, and they consistently have a violent streak.”

Bruce began to feel goosebumps form on his skin, and it wasn’t because of the air conditioning.

Quinzel began to walk forward down the dark hallway, towards a few pools of light illuminating the hallway, coming from the cells.

“This is where we’ll be doing most of our work. You’re under strict instruction to not talk to the patients, that’s my job. I run a group therapy session here, as well as one on ones with three patients. You’re here to observe. Nothing else.” Quinzels demeanor seemed much more serious here. He could hear her heels clicking softly, the floor was eerily quiet, and it only added to its foreboding atmosphere.

“You’ll be given background sheets on each of the patients here, I’ll run through them real quick for you. Get you acquainted with them.”

The cells were rectangular in shape, the front of the room was outfitted with a thick layer of glass, so that every aspect of the room was in the open, so that the patient so could see out, and you could see in. Bruce thought it was strangely Silence of the Lambs-esque.

“These patients are separated from general population, they eat in their cells, if they go outside it is in full restraints along with a security detail, if they need to use the bathroom three guards accompany them. They’re under our eyes at all times.”

The first cell they came to was like a scene out of a twisted children’s book. Every inch of the place was covered in a delicate sheen of ice, and Bruce could feel cold radiating off of the wall of glass that separated the hallway from the cell. A small table sat in the corner with a few scientific instruments, hunched over the table was a tall figure, dressed in what looked like to be a space suit.

“Victor Fries. 43 years old. Froze his wife in a cryogenic state for seemingly no reason. Says he wants to find a cure for her, for an unspecified disease. We don’t know his full story, he’s, no pun intended, very cold to the psychiatrists. After a botched experiment he can’t survive out of below zero temperatures.”

Bruce took a look at Fries, trying to guess what the man had in his gloved hand. It seemed to be a snow globe.

Quinzel turned to the cell opposite of Fries.

“Victor Zsasz. Around 37 years old. Currently escaped.” Bruce turned to look at the cell behind Fries. Every single inch of the place was covered in tally marks. He sucked in the air through his teeth. This is what you imagined when you thought mental hospital. “Apparently has been working as a mob hitman since he was thirteen, which is unconfirmed. Schizophrenic, as well as a psychopath. Extremely dangerous, prone to self mutilation. The tally marks indicate how many he’s killed.” Bruce’s blood ran cold at that thought. 

Quinzel continued moving, Bruce looked back between the two cells for a moment, then coughed to get her attention.

“Why are these patients allowed to have their own things if they’re the ones we should be most worried about, wouldn’t they just use them against us?”

Quinzel kept walking towards the next cell. “Think of it as appeasement, if we give them a little bit of luxury, they’re more likely to stay if the cell is their own. Besides there’s a strict vetting process for any items that come in and out.”

She continued down the hallway, listing off names, their crimes, their ailments. Oswald Cobblepot. Harvey Dent. Jonathan Crane. They were all people Bruce had seen in the news before, but never this close, with the exception of Crane. Some of the cells were empty, others contained their inhabitants. They didn’t seem to notice Bruce, but a few gave Quinzel a look or two.

They were nearly at the end of the hall, stopping at a cell that would have contained Pamela Isley, a small fern sat alone in the corner of the room. Quinzel was rambling on about how she seduced her prey, how she used her good looks to get men and women to do her bidding. She took more time to explain Isley’s motivation than anyone else's.

Bruce noticed one door at the end of the room, it too had the fingerprint scanner, and seemed deliberately pushed out of the way.  

“Dr. Quinzel?” Bruce piped up as she continued her tangent about Isley, now about her lipstick. “What’s in there.”

That shut her up. She nervously tried to busy herself with her clipboard.

“Patient 81.”

“81?”

“We’re not supposed to use the names they gave themselves, and he refuses to give us his real name. So he’s just 81.”

“Who is it?” Bruce had to ask, he had a suspicion, but deep in his gut he didn’t want to be true.

“It’s Joker’s cell.” She said quietly.

That made his heart stop.

Everyone in Gotham knew Joker. Everyone. You could say his name to a baby and it would start to cry. He was new on the criminal scene, his first entrance on to the stage was at the GCPD, during Bruce’s freshman year of college. He held the commissioner's kids hostage, asking for a couple crates of military grade explosives. Five officers were killed, as well as a captain. No doubt there would’ve been more if Joker hadn’t got what he wanted. He still remembered seeing the grainy footage of the man in the GCPD, he was dangerously skinny with a wicked looking grin, but that was the least of it. Green hair, purple suit, and a kid pressed to a his chest with a gun against the poor thing's temple. The whole city was holding its breath, waiting to see what he would do next. 

He got the explosives, and walked away without getting caught. He was underground for almost a year, enough time to gather a following, even the media jumped on his case, giving him the nickname ‘the Clown Prince of Crime’. Soon enough those explosives showed up in packages all over the city. They caught him at the old amusement park at the pier. There was a shootout, Joker grabbed an officer to try and play the hostage card again, but a strike team got there before it could escalate any further.

After, they found some of his belongings in an old apartment in the Narrows, guns, ammunition, more explosives, along with more personal items, his wardrobe, a few books, and the most chilling thing, a box of photographs. They were called the Joker Seven, fourteen different photos. One showed a person gagged, blindfolded and tied up, their hands bound, looking relatively healthy, sitting in the middle of an empty room. The other photo showed their corpse. No one was able to identify them, so they remained the Seven.

Bruce had obsessed over him, devouring any article, video clip, photos of his crime scenes, hidden away in his study for days at a time, analyzing the man’s every move. He could never put a finger on his behavior, only that he was completely dysregulated.

He was terrifying. A larger than life figure, almost too terrible for Gotham.

And there he was, less than ten feet away from Bruce, under lock and key.

Quinzel looked at her watch. “Damn it.”  

“What is it?” Bruce didn’t tear his eyes away from the door.

“I didn’t want to shove you in the deep end on your first day, but I need to give him his meds. Damn it.” She hissed. “I had tried to plan it so you wouldn’t have to go in there with me today.”

“What? I-I don’t want to go in there,” He motioned to the door.

“Well, you’ll have to. You’re probably less safe out here without me, than with me in there. Come on.”

Quinzel marched towards the door, gripping to her clipboard like it was a lifeboat. She held her finger up to the door, and it slid open with a cool hydraulic hiss.

“He’s heavily sedated at all times, you have nothing to worry about.”

The cell was much more brightly lit, stark white in comparison to the hallway. A thick pane of glass still separated them. It was sparsely furnished, a cot, a table and chair. There was nothing else in the room, except for him. Bruce almost lost Joker in the expansive white of the room, his skin tone almost matched the bleached white walls. The only thing that distinguished him was an anarchic mess of faded green hair. He was turned from them, but Bruce could see a card game on his table, solitaire, it looked like. He hoped he would stay that way, he didn’t want to see the clown’s face up close. 

“81, meds.” Quinzel said as she dug through her pocket.

“Joker.” He corrected.There was a pause, Joker’s hand hovered over the table for a second. “Thank you, Harley.” He didn’t turn to look at them, his voice was robotic, much less animated than what Bruce had heard on the poor audio recordings of him. What anxiety he had was slowly starting to disappear. 

“Harleen.” She answered immediately, Bruce got the impression that Joker wasn’t listening. “More importantly, Dr. Quinzel. You don’t like when I call you 81, so the least you could do—“

“Thank you, Doc-tor.” He cut her off, and enunciated in a manner that made the title seem like an insult.

Quinzel stepped up to the glass of Joker’s cell, and placed four pills into a small slot, that closed behind her hand.

Joker drew himself up from the chair at the sound of the pills tumbling through the slot to his side of the glass, skinny legs stretching, his arms reaching above his head, he bent backward in an easy manner.

“Who’s the _gar_ _ç_ _on de joie_?” Joker snickered to himself as he looked Bruce up and down.

Bruce was able to get a good look at him now. He was still dangerously skinny, his uniform was wrinkled, his hair was more faded than it was when he was first captured. His face was long and thin, it might have been considered attractive if he wasn’t so emaciate, and if scars didn’t branch out from the corners of his mouth. He lacked the war paint he was wearing in the videos of him, so his skin seemed washed out and pale. His eyes were the most unsettling, green and discerning. All the video footage in the world couldn’t prepare Bruce for what he looked like, essentially a walking corpse.

“Don’t call him that.” Quinzel said in a clipped manner, trying to end Jokers antics as soon as he started.

“Intern?” Observant. Joker came close to the slot that held his pills, and tapped at the glass with one skinny finger, Bruce noticed that his nail beds were ragged, his index finger was bleeding a little. “Must be a smart one." He addressed Bruce directly, "Or else they wouldn’t let you meet me.” Narcissistic.

“The pills.” Quinzel cut him off.

“Quit acting so austere Harley, you know me.” The man’s eyes then turned to Bruce again, pinning him to the back of the room. “Too smart to be working here. Too handsome, too.” Bruce kept his face straight, trying to give the clown as little ammunition as possible. 

“The pills.” She repeated.

“No fun,” Joker mumbled to himself as he took the medicine from its slot, tearing his eyes from Bruce. “I barely get any visitors, and then Bruce Wayne waltzes in, and I’m not even allowed to say hello.” He sighed exaggeratedly. This shouldn’t have made Bruce’s hairs stand on end, he was a semi public figure in Gotham, occasionally he was on television, mostly just for the the company’s charity ball, Joker would know his name, but the cadence and intonation of his words was unsettling. He felt a chill rock through his spine.

“Oh, just let him in so we can play a little card game, Harley, I’m endlessly bored in here.” Joker titled his head back, and popped the pills into his mouth, swallowing them without water.

“Its against the rules, you most of all should know that.” Quinzel said. “Mouth.”

Joker stretched his mouth open and stuck his tongue out to show that the pills had been swallowed, keeping his eyes on Bruce the whole time. This time Bruce tore his eyes away to look at Quinzel.

“All right.” Quinzel shifted, placing her clipboard at her size. “You have a session with me at noon two days from now.”

“Will he be there?” Joker inquired.

“Yes. But don’t get any ideas, goodbye.” Quinzel turned, Bruce followed suit, but shot one last look over his shoulder.

Joker’s index finger was still tapping at the glass, and the only emotion that could be seen in his face was a small smile that turned up the corners of his mouth, Bruce got a feeling that it was for him.


	2. Session 01

Bruce thought being face to face with Joker was enough cause to quit the internship.

Luckily, he didn't have to tell Alfred. So, he wouldn't be quitting any time soon.

He could barely drive himself home after his first day at the internship, his hands were shaking so much, from either anxiety or excitement, and he couldn't wipe his smile off of his face. The university told him that he would be dealing with the more troubled patients, given the nature of his research, but never would he have imagined going straight to the most troubled. Disturbed, rather. He silently thanked the internship office as he pulled into his driveway, letting out a whoop of joy after shutting his car door.

That night at dinner his mind was still somewhere far off in Arkham Asylum thinking about the specialized cells on the maximum security floor, about how many were empty, seven of the fifteen, about Joker's single solitary cell at the end of that hallway, about Joker, and his first in person impression of the criminal. Naturally, he already had a profile on the clown, but research was one thing, sitting down with the individual was another.

He made casual conversation with Alfred over dinner as he relived the research he had done on Joker. The butler had of course, asked about the internship.

"Fine," Bruce said, shrugging, trying to keep his answer as neutral as possible. Alfred had the uncanny ability to weed out his lies, and he was trying to keep the butler off of his case for as long as possible.

"Nothing out of the ordinary?" Alfred said as he took a bite of the roast he had prepared for dinner.

"No. It was normal," Bruce shrugged, and then regretted his word choice. "Well, as normal as they said it was going to be. No one jumped me, that's what I mean,"

"Is Dr. Quinzel interesting, then?"

"I guess,"

"Your patients?"

"Haven't met them yet," Bruce said. It was a half truth. Quinzel had said she had two other patients as well as "81". One was Bruce's disgraced psychology professor, Jonathan Crane, who he had deliberately avoided looking at as he passed the man's cell. It was a whole different level of awkward. The other, Edward Nygma, a genius with an extremely severe case of OCD and an affinity for Rubiks Cubes, twelve of which decorated his cell.

Alfred nodded, sensing that Bruce didn't want to elaborate. Alfred then continued on about his day, a run to the supermarket, a visit to Wayne Enterprises, he had almost succumbed to watching American television, which Bruce knew Alfred detested.

"Well if you get too lonely, I'll quit," Bruce joked as he stood to clear his plate, taking Alfred's with him.

Bruce nearly ran up the stairs to his study after dinner, itching to pour over the research on Joker he had compiled freshman year of college. He had even submitted it to the University's library, and they had accepted. They had called his research "meticulously researched, in an almost obsessive manner," Bruce decided to take it as a compliment.

What he knew about Joker was that he was dangerous. That was a given, you didn't have to analyze him too deeply to see that. First off he was magnetic, he had full control of the medium of crime and its performance. He had taken Gotham by storm, kidnapping kids, holding the police force hostage, stripping down Gotham's defenses. He treated it as a game. Perhaps it was a delusion, but he didn't think so. Joker was too alert. He had a disconnection with reality, but not a total separation from the real world.

He fished through the drawers in his study, praying that he had kept the original copies of his research. Finally, he found it, sitting at the bottom of the drawer, a black folder that was at least three inches thick. Bruce had moved most of his findings to his computer, but there was always something special about pouring over a case the old fashioned way, the papers spread out around you in a circle, the air smelling like ink and dust.

The man was incredibly elusive, and after so much research Bruce still couldn't discern a clear motive to why Joker did it. One thing had always stopped his research, there was no record of Joker before he was the Joker. The most formative years for psychopaths were adolescence, most of them displayed common traits, a violent streak towards animals, anti-social personalities, arson. He only had so much access to Joker’s information, most was still classified and kept under tight watch by the GCPD and Arkham, in order to prevent copycat crimes.

There were things Bruce knew for sure. Joker had a distorted view of reality-- that was apparent. He treated his crimes as a game, the police an object for him to toy with, the explosives he had stolen a plaything, the endless broadcasts about him a grand performance. He had little remorse, able to pull a trigger without worrying about what came afterwards. Yet he was still organized, Bruce recalled footage of Joker, lamenting about his absence of planning. Even if the clown didn’t have a plan for his crimes, which Bruce seriously doubted, he was able to think quickly. 

Then there was the Joker Seven, an even deeper insight into his psyche. Murder was personal, and the serial killings was something that he had wanted to hide if the photos of his victims were with his personal belongings. Most intriguing, they were premeditated. Or at least perceived to be.

Bruce bit the inside of his cheek as he closed the folder, thinking that with his research, and Quinzel's expertise, he could crack Joker's mind open.

* * *

 Bruce arrived at the Asylum early, with a coffee in hand. Thankfully, this time he didn't have to bribe the guard to get into the place.

Quinzel had a scheduled session with Joker today, and Bruce was ready to begin as soon as possible, pouring over his old research the past few days had made him eager to learn about the man. He wasn't obsessive, really, just... engrossed. Joker's case was the most interesting in Arkham, to him at least. No name, no family, no motive. Just pure cognitive chaos, and now Bruce could tap into that and attempt to dissect it.

Quinzel had asked him to accompany another doctor on medicine rounds before the session, just to grow more accustomed to how the Asylum operated. Bruce had heard stories of malpractice and abuse, but at surface level the place seemed fine. Patients were accounted for, security was understaffed but functional, and there hadn't been any of Arkham's famous riots, yet.

Bruce still remained skeptical, there had been too many stories of patients leaving the Asylum and then talking about the abuse in the place for him to turn a blind eye. He had a suspicion that they were hiding things from him, most likely because of his family's contributions to the Asylum. They probably thought that if he knew what was really going on, he would have the Wayne Foundation cut funding.  

Bruce's job was to mark that the patient had taken their meds, and at what time. He and the doctor that was accompanying him were stopped at a door on the first floor. As the doctor placed pills into a slot in the door, a patient from within the room shuffled up, and took them without hesitation. She was thin, mousy brown hair hung down to her collar bones and she had dry and chapped lips that bled slightly. Bruce noticed some scarring and bruising on her arm as her hand took the pills.

"Excuse me, Doctor Strange?" Bruce said as he looked at the stat sheet pinned to the patient's door. "What medicine is this patient on, it isn't on her stat sheet."

Hugo Strange was the head psychiatrist at Arkham, a fairly short man with a manicured beard and round glasses that sat on the tip of his nose. He usually spent his days holed up in the Warden’s office, or so Bruce had been told. Strange oversaw most of the prescriptions in the Asylum, and made most of the decisions related to the drugs. He'd been fairly standoffish to Bruce, explaining things in a cool monotone, he seemed annoyed to be accompanying a lowly intern like him, even if Bruce's family was a main sponsor to the Asylum. Bruce didn't blame him entirely, it was unusual for the head psychiatrist to oversee something as simple as daily meds.  

"It's Asenapine, Lurasidone and Xanax like Dr. Quinzel told you, I'm surprised you couldn't remember." He made a casual gesture. "Just an across the board treatment to keep them pacified."

"She seems malnourished, sir, and Lurasidone sometimes affects the appetite of the user, shouldn't she be taking something with a weaker dose?" Bruce questioned as he tapped on his clipboard.

"The patient has a history of violent outbursts related to her schizophrenia, Wayne, do you want an aggressive patient on your hands?" Strange talked to him like he was a child, his words drawn out and exaggerated, and his tone flat.

"Of course not, sir, but maybe we-"

"I'll take your comment into consideration" Strange said dryly.

Bruce took one last look into the cell, the woman had moved back over to her cot, and was now staring at the wall, her jaw slack and her hands placed in her lap. He made a small check mark by her number, and followed Strange to the next door.

They continued, each patient as unresponsive and robotic as the last. It was a disturbing sight.

"You have your session with Dr. Quinzel and Patient 81 today?" Strange inquired as they reached the last door on their list. Bruce looked up from his clipboard, curious, as Strange hadn't tried to talk to him prior to this.

"Yes."

"If it was up to me you'd be doing this all day long." Strange said as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he wore a small frown. Bruce didn't admire his bluntness. "But Dr. Quinzel was quite interested in that paper of yours, the predictors of psychopathy at an early age?"

"Yes, I--"

"It's juvenile. Frankly. Done a million times before." Strange said as he placed the three pills into the slot of the door in front of him. "A heavy handed report, poor researching, and the writing itself was atrocious. Besides, Crane helped you write it so it's essentially the ramblings of a madman." Strange scoffed, and smiled an caustic smirk that barely reached the corners of his own mouth.

Bruce couldn't say anything, he could feel heat in his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. He busied himself by writing on the clipboard. Date. Time. Patient. Dose. He tried to not pay attention to Strange's criticism.

"Nevertheless, I'll give credit where credit is due." He sighed. "Your collection of media and surface level analyzation of Patient 81 is..." Strange searched for the word. "Adequate."

"Thank you." Bruce said shortly, trying to discern if it was a compliment.

"Good luck, with 81. Though I doubt you'll make any real progress. Dr. Quinzel is waiting in the maximum security session room, you're free to go."  

Bruce nodded, and turned on his heel, heading back through the hallway, glad to be rid of Strange's presence.

Arkham's hallways were easy to get lost in, he had once heard that they were deliberately arranged to make it harder for patients to escape. They winded around the center courtyard of the place, leading to broom closets or offices, never leading anywhere. He had passed through the rec room two times before he found the elevator that lead to maximum security. He was able to access it without Quinzel, but only at specific times. His intern status granted him reduced privileges in Arkham’s security system.

It wasn’t as hot as his first day at the Asylum, but the air conditioning on the maximum security floor was still refreshing.

He passed through the main hallway quickly, and pretended to busy himself with his pen. He had read through most of the patient’s cases last night, it hadn’t helped to relax his nerves. He could feel a few pairs of eyes on him as he turned turned the corner. Dr. Quinzel was there to greet him.

“Great, you’re right on time. How was Strange?”

Bruce shrugged, “Fine, I guess. Didn’t seem to like me much, but I’ll get over it.”

“Don’t worry, we’re in the same boat.” She said with a small smile that disappeared quickly. “81 is in there with two guards, they’ll leave once we enter, but they’ll be standing out here the whole time. 81 is being restrained right now.”

“Has he acted out in the past?”

Quinzel nodded enthusiastically as she flipped through a stack of papers on her clipboard. “Ask anyone, they all have stories or rumors about it. The one about him biting off an orderly’s ear is one of the more bland ones I’ve heard.”

Bruce looked to the door, and saw a few figures moving through the clouded glass.

“You’re here to observe, so don’t try to interact with him. Especially after yesterday, he tries to butter up anyone that talks to him, get them on his side, get in their head. Just watch out for that. You’ll be taking notes the whole time.”

“On anything specific…?”

“Whatever you think is important. He was just recently granted permission to start one on one therapy. It’s not so much rehabilitation for him, rather than getting a glimpse into how he operates. He likes to lie, so we don’t have an accurate profile on him.”

“Right.”

“Anymore questions? Maybe you want to call anyone before you head in there?”

“Am I going to come out maimed?”

“Probably not. Slightly disturbed is possible.” That was the first joke he heard Quinzel make, which was refreshing from her more serious demeanor. “Let’s head in.”

The room was a total contrast to the sterilized, clean maximum security hallway. It was furnished with a desk, made up with papers, a mug of coffee, a few other items. Tall bookshelves lined one wall, stretching up to the ceiling, piled high with all different types of tomes. A few chairs were placed in a semicircle, along with a sofa. Lighting was low, and a few lamps and sconces were around to provide illumination.  A large window was on the opposite end of the door, and it looked like it belonged in a church rather than the Asylum, there were even a few pains of stained glass, that reflected pools of purple, green and blue light onto the dark wood floors of the office. It seemed to open out into the courtyard of the Asylum.

Bruce had expected a pure white room, with tiling and maybe even padded walls. This atmosphere was strangely inviting. He suspected it was that way to put the patient at ease, to make them more eager to talk. Maybe it was even Quinzel’s office. He suspected that the room belonged to an older version of the Asylum, a place that hadn’t been updated to match maximum security’s clean, industrial aesthetic.

He quickly brushed off his awe at the sight of the room, and followed Quinzel in. Joker sat in front of the window, two guards stood on either side of him, both dressed in black clothing, bullet proof vests, earpieces, a taser on their hip. The clown was restrained, as Quinzel had said. Two pairs of handcuffs restrained his legs against the legs of a chair, and one pair looped around the arms of the seat to keep his hands restrained. Quinzel took a seat at an armchair across from Joker, and Bruce took his seat apart from them, out of the lamplight, so as not to be a distraction.

“God, I just love these.” Joker said with a grin as he moved his hands against the handcuffs, a rattling sound passed through the room. “Where can I get my own pair?” His hair was less chaotic than the last time Bruce had seen him, but he still had that eerie, washed out quality to him. 

“Should just throw the key away,” grumbled one of the guards.

“Allard, Franco, you can go.” Quinzel said, motioning for the door.

One of the guards shot Joker a look before turning to leave, she made eye contact with Bruce as she passed, she had a sympathetic look on her face.

“So tell me about your new intern, Harl, I thought the last one liked me.” Joker didn’t bother looking at him.

“We’re here to talk about you, Joker, not about Wayne.” Quinzel said, talking with a cool disposition. Bruce brought his pen to his pad of paper, jotting down how Quinzel had referred to Joker by his given name, it seemed strange given how much she had insisted on calling him 81.  “Do you remember where we left off?”

“Yeah, that last intern, really, come on, you should have got someone who wasn’t afraid of bugs.”

Bruce was suddenly interested in what happened to Quinzel’s last intern.

“Since you don't want to talk, let's do something simple. You know word association, correct?”

“This could only be more cliche if I was laying on that couch.” Joker jerked his head towards the plush love seat that sat near him.

“Just give it a try.”

Joker said nothing, and instead rolled his shoulders back, and tilted his head up to the ceiling to look away from Harley. Bruce thought that was as close to a yes as they were going to get.

“Green.” She began.

“Hair, which by the way I need to get redone--” Bruce began to write down the the conversation.

“Cold.”

“Victor.”

“Unpleasant.”

“Jim Gordon.”

“Pleasant.”

“Handcuffs.”

“Water.”

“Poisoned.”

“Poison?”

“Pleasant.”

“Answer honestly.” Quinzel said as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. 

“Lie.”

Quinzel exhaled as Joker sat forward and slouched in his seat, some of his hair fell into his eyes, the handcuffs rattled again. Bruce took the pause in their conversation to write as fast as he could.

“Arkham.”

“Temporary.”

“Me.”

“A real tart,” Joker grinned salaciously.

“Bruce.”

“Handcuffs.” Bruce tensed up.

“Alright, enough of that," Quinzel shifted in her seat, adjusting her skirt.  

“Are you going to have me look at the ink blots now, Doc?” He said, every syllable dripping with sarcasm and boredom. 

“No. Bruce is going to ask you something,” Quinzel turned in her seat to look back at Bruce, who was taken aback at the statement. She had said he would be there only to observe, to be invisible. “You had something prepared?” She said with a slight nod. Bruce looked over her shoulder at Joker, who had tilted his head up to look at him. Maybe she was trying to throw Joker off?

“Right-- yeah,” He fumbled with his notepad for a moment. “Why the make up on the face? When you did it, the whole hostage thing. You don’t have an identity to conceal-- so why?” He tapped his pen on the top of his notepad.

“Here, you should have been doing this from the beginning, I’m a vain man,” Joker relaxed in his seat. “Bruce knows where to start.”

“She asked if you wanted to talk about yourself at the beginning,” Bruce pointed out.

“You’re right, so I will.” Joker tilted his chin upwards. “I’m nobody,” He pushed out his bottom lip in a pout. “Nothing to my name, I’m awfully sorry looking, and all these other guys I see have a gimmick. Ozzie with the birds, Pamela with the plants, Freeze with the unresolved marital issues-- I needed to stand out.”

“Why?” Bruce questioned.

“I’m narcissistic, you said it yourself. Those little papers on me, quite the read.”

“You don’t have access to the library--” Quinzel piped up, concern in her voice, but she still kept a level tone, so not to sound alarmed.

“I’m flattered, honestly, I had no idea you were so interested in me, Bruce,”

Bruce stopped tapping his pen.

“Starstruck?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?” The grin that had been present for most of the session disappeared from his face. He looked intimidating in the darkness of the room, his face obstructed by strands of hair and shadows. Bruce’s heart beat faster.

“Just interested.” Bruce stated, his voice measured. 

“Your gimmick, as you put it, let’s talk about that. Clowns?” Quinzel interjected, drawing the clown’s attention away from Bruce. The hair-raising expression was suddenly gone from his face.

“I have an appreciation for comedy, theater, that whole arena.” Joker tried waving his hand in his cuffs, to little success. "And, it's funny." He smiled, it didn't reach his eyes.

“You view crime as a game. You’ve acknowledged that in the past.”

“I’m the only one playing it right,” He leaned back in his chair, his finger began to scratch at the wood on his chair.

“What do you mean by right?”

“I’m doing it for fun, you see? People like Harvey and Ozzie are doing it to win.”

“What’s fun in this context?”

“It’s that feeling, when--” He paused to lick his lips. “When you beat someone to death, and there’s enough pulp on your hands, that if you squeeze them together, it pools up and it has that nice--” He breathed in through his nose, deep and long. He closed his eyes, a genuine smile passing across his face. “That wonderful metallic smell. This place smells like it sometimes. That’s the feeling.”

Bruce jotted down his explanation in as great detail as he could, his stomach turned at the imagery. He looked up at Quinzel, who seemed unfazed by his graphic description.

"And what's winning?" 

"Now your making me explain myself, it's getting boring." 

“Then let's wrap up. I’m required to ask these, are you suicidal?” Quinzel brought her pen to the clipboard in her lap. 

“Just a tad,” He brought his index finger and thumb close together.

“Do you have violent thoughts when you are alone?”

“Oh, constantly, you wouldn’t believe--”

“Does your medication give you side effects such as nausea, nose bleeds, or hallucinations?”

“No, but could you put me on some that does?”

“That’s all my questions,” Quinzel ticked a box on her clipboard, and then turned her head to the door. “Allard?”

The two guards entered the room again, and came to where Joker sat. Bruce stood as soon as Quinzel did, he stopped for a moment to watch the guards. They unlocked Joker’s hands, and attached them to the chain around his waist.

“Think you could do them a little tighter, Frankie?” Joker said with a smirk to the guard on his left, Franco. The man grimaced.

As they undid his legs, and fastened chains to his ankles, Joker looked at Bruce, lingering by his chair. The clown tried to bring his cuffed hand to his ear, mimicking the shape of a phone.

“Call me,” He mouthed exaggeratedly.

Bruce’s brow furrowed at the sight, he then turned to follow Quinzel out of the room, clearing the imagery of blood splattered hands from his mind as best he could. 


	3. Patient 107

“Okay. Let’s review.”  

Quinzel and Bruce had retreated to her office after the session with Joker, the space was small, but not as cramped as the cells in the Asylum. A desk was squeezed in front of a window that looked down on Arkham’s courtyard, on top of it sat Quinzel’s laptop, a few stacks of files and books, with Bruce’s notes from the session at the center. It seemed like space where she spent a lot of time, a few coffee mugs were scattered on the desk and filing cabinets, there were a few prints of art and a calendar that featured different types of plants. Quinzel seemed to have put effort into making the space seem more like a home. 

Quinzel had swept her hair back out of her face, and was pouring over the notes. Bruce pointed one end of his pen at the beginning of the page.

“I don’t normally pay attention to body language,” he began, “But he seemed kind of at ease, or maybe unresponsive. You said it was his first time in one on one therapy?”

“Yeah.”

“You think he would have some feelings of anxiety or anger that would show in how he looked, but he was just kind of limp. You know?” Bruce sagged his shoulders, and leaned back in his chair, imitating Joker’s stance. “He either wasn’t phased by the situation, or is hiding his emotions and reactions carefully.”

Quinzel crossed her arms on the desk, “He views it as a stage, everything. The way he carries himself-- its deliberate. Every interaction, It’s part of the performance for him. That probably translates over here.”

“He’s taken on a different quality in the Asylum,” Bruce moved his pen down the page. “He was much more manic-- feverish, I guess, when he knew a large crowd was watching, when he had a gun in his hand and he had complete control.” Images passed through his mind of Joker, clad head to toe in a gaudy purple suit, face painted, lips stained with blood red lipstick, a gun clutched in his hand.

“It could be the drugs that are subduing aspects of his personality, he’s on multiple anti-psychosis medicines.” At this point, Quinzel had opened her laptop, and started a summary of the session in Arkham’s database.

“Most likely, I know as much as you do.”

“Don’t lie,” Quinzel scoffed. “I’ve read the preliminary research report you did on him, as well as the profile, and I’m sure there’s more than that. You probably know more about him than anyone in here.”

Bruce gave a small smile, he wasn’t one to talk about his achievements and found himself feeling awkward when people mentioned his, especially when it was related to his research on Joker. Unchecked obsession, that’s what it really was.

“Does he have sort of spikes in his behavior?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty common. He can go for weeks at a time, silent, he’ll play cards with himself, or sleep for long periods of time. Or he’ll pace around. We didn’t keep an eye on him initially during those episodes, then he fastened a small little shiv out of metal from the springs in his mattress, he had killed three guards before we got to him. Wouldn’t stop talking afterwards, very creepy.”

“So extreme waves of depression and mania, often with a violent outburst?”

“Correct.”

“Well we could keep observing him. He seemed more regulated when we caught him. I’m not a professional yet, but having him contained for a long time could be a good chance to see if he exhibits more traits of a Bipolar disorder.”

“Maybe even with Rapid Cycling since he changes moods so quickly.” Quinzel tapped the idea out into the report.

“Could he cooperate enough to go through personality testing?”

“It's unlikely. We’ll just have to observe and diagnose through the sessions. That all?”

“Yeah. For now.” Bruce nodded as he reached across the desk to tuck the papers back into the file. He stood, and walked to a file cabinet near Quinzel’s desk, he pointed towards the handle, still not familiar with the space. She didn’t look up from the computer as he placed the folder inside. Quinzel sighed.

“What?”

“The elephant in the room? I know it’s uncomfortable to mention, but I think it’s safe to say he wants something to do with you.” She said, looking up from her computer’s screen, her brow was furrowed, she had pushed her glasses off of her face and they were resting on the crown of her head.

“What do you mean?” Bruce said as he closed the file cabinet, for whatever reason, his heart was beating a little quicker. He tried to fake innocence.

“The flirtations-- that’s the only way I can put it.”

“Right... yeah.” Bruce brought his hand to his throat to straighten his tie. He didn’t want to acknowledge Joker’s attitude towards him, it wasn’t that it was unexpected. Based on police reports, he had figured out that the man acted that way. He didn’t consider the possibility that he would be the target of Joker’s affections, he didn’t know what to think of it.

“He acts like that sometimes-- mostly with the  guards-- also makes comments to the other maximum security prisoners. They all hate it, he probably knows they hate it.”

“Then maybe he thinks it’ll get under my skin,” Bruce shrugged as he replayed the scene from their session over in his mind. ‘Call me’ was what he remembered most clearly. He brought his hand to his chin, and tapped his index finger against his lips in thought. “Has he identified himself as anything other than heterosexual?”

Quinzel shook her head slightly, “No. We’ve asked before, says he prefers to ‘keep it a mystery’, do you think it’s relevant?”

“No, at least not for now. Probably just acting out in that way to gain more attention.”

“Textbook narcissism. Maybe he’s even a touch Histrionic.” Quinzel sighed as she pressed a button on her computer to shut it off.

“Right.” Bruce tucked his hand into his pocket, he could still clearly picture the sight of Joker’s face in the dark of that room.

“Next Monday for our next session?”

“Right--” Bruce pushed the thought away. “With who?”

“A familiar face-- Crane.”

* * *

> **Patient 107**
> 
> **Name:** ~~Dr.~~  Jonathan R. Crane
> 
> **Age:** 37
> 
> **Physical Appearance:** The patient is fairly tall, standing at about 6’0”, and was considered underweight, weighing 140lbs. The patient’s face is thin, with no facial hair, markings. No tattoos. He was in possession of a small, crudely made mask when admitted to the Asylum, stated that it belonged to the ‘Scarecrow’
> 
> **Identified Disorders:** Schizotypal personality, Mild schizophrenia as a symptom to prolonged exposure to his manufactured ‘fear toxin’. Relatively high functioning. 
> 
> **Reason for Admittance:** 4 cases of willfully executed violence, 2 of which on a large scale, all executed in a state of unsound mind
> 
> **Notable Social History: **The patient has reported of being mocked by peers from a young age, and growing up in a household with an extremely religious grandmother. This is corroborated by the police office of the past residence of Patient 107.
> 
> This culminated in two murder cases that went unsolved for two decades, at the age of fifteen, Patient 107 murdered a boy from his high school who had been one of his primary assailants. The body was found ten miles away from the town, in another county, and Patient 107 was not apprehended. Then, at age seventeen he murdered his grandmother. He confessed to these crimes after being admitted to the Asylum.
> 
> The patient expressed an interest in biochemistry and psychology in high school, and went on to become an accomplished neurochemist. While experimenting with a concentrate of adrenaline harvested from the amygdala of pigs-- the experiment failed, and Patient 107 was doused with what was essentially liquid terror-- and reportedly experienced his ‘worst fear’. The patient then experienced a nervous breakdown.
> 
> 107 then continued his experiments,with the amygdala’s of his students from the psychology department,  taken without consent, using his combined knowledge of chemistry and neuroscience-- 107 was able to create a potent ‘fear toxin’ that made the victim experience their worst fears.
> 
> Patient 107 then began to sell this toxin to drug dealers within the city, passing it off as nitrous oxide. 78 individuals were affected by the gas, 10 paralyzed, and 3 killed. 107 was apprehended by the GCPD, and deemed legally insane. 107 is currently being housed in Maximum Security.

 

Bruce closed the file-- feeling a heavy weight resting on his shoulders. He knew Crane’s story-- everyone at the psychology department did. There it sat for him to read and examine, it felt too personal. It was one thing watching the news coverage on it, and another holding Crane’s problems in his hand. He wanted to protest, and suggest someone else take the case, but he still had some curiosity around Crane’s situation that prevented him from saying anything.

“I’m going to let you do the talking.” Quinzel said as she peered into the office in maximum security. “Alone.”

“What?” Bruce said, dumbfounded.

“Well, Crane was eager to speak when we first admitted him, now he’s become a little resistant, maybe seeing a familiar face with pry something out of him. Besides, you had some success with 81, so I'd like to try it here.” Quinzel took the file from Bruce, “We still don’t know the whole story behind his grandmother-- or the time he spent selling the fear toxin. Besides, I want to see how you do running a one on one session-- maybe you could run a therapy group on the second floor.”

Bruce nodded as he took the file back from Quinzel and opened it once more, “Does he participate in any group therapy?”

“Yeah, once every two weeks. Pretends to hate Nygma, but they’re sort of friends. Gets along fine with Cobblepot, he’s usually pretty quiet, no disturbances since he’s been admitted. Doesn’t like 81, but who does?”

Bruce nodded, and closed his hand around the doorknob to the office.

“Good Luck.” Quinzel nodded.

Crane was accompanied by no guards, he sat in an armchair, alone. His head was turned to the window, staring out into the courtyard below. Bruce noticed that he was chewing on his fingernails. Bruce remembered his hair being much more ragged when he was teaching, but here it was cut and groomed, the gray jumpsuit he wore was so different than his usual ensemble of over sized trousers and argyle patterned sweaters that somehow he looked more put together.

“Bruce?” He seemed genuinely surprised to see his former student, his hand dropped to his side.

“Professor Cr--” Bruce stopped himself. “Crane.”

“It’s nice to see you.” The shock was still not gone from his voice.

“You too.” That wasn’t a lie. Bruce had liked having Crane as his professor, he was one of the reasons he stayed in Gotham for school. His list of accomplishments was long, multiple grants, acclaimed papers, revolutionary breakthroughs on the study of phobia. He was an eccentric man, dressed raggedly, and muttered to himself occasionally, never married, but it didn’t make him any less brilliant. Although, he couldn’t find it in himself to feel sympathetic, Crane had killed people, lured students and coerced them in to participating in his experiments and held the city hostage with his fear toxin. Still, Bruce thought he looked very timid sitting in that arm chair in the gray Arkham jumpsuit.

“So you got the internship.” Crane said as he shifted in his seat, nothing in his tone indicated pride.

“Yeah. I still appreciate what you did to help me with my paper.” Bruce nodded as he pulled a pen from his coat.

“You did most of the work, I just nudged you.” Crane brushed the comment off.

“Where would you like to start?” Bruce said as he brought his pen to his notepad.

“You’re running the session?” Crane raised an eyebrow.

“I have maximum clearance.”

“Shouldn’t Doctor Quinzel be here?” Crane peered over Bruce’s shoulder to look towards the door.

“She couldn’t.”

“Isn’t this a conflict of interest, then? I’d really hate to be talking to my former student about my…” Crane sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Lapse.”

“The warden said we’re understaffed, I can’t do anything about it.”

“Fine, then. I could just not say anything.”

“It would be beneficial if we could use this time productively.” Bruce recited.

“Oh, don’t say that-- I invented that. You’re probably just here because they think you’ll get more out of me.” Crane waved his hand at him.

He was silent for a moment, resting his chin on his hand, turned away from Bruce. There was a small finch fluttering around in the courtyard, just past the glass. Bruce watched Crane’s dull blue eyes follow it.

“We don’t have to talk about your lapse,” Bruce conceded, “Maybe you could share your thoughts on the other patients? I haven’t been here long.”

Crane still said nothing.

“Nygma?” He said, trying to gain Crane’s attention.

“Should have picked his nickname to be ‘Migraine’” Crane mumbled through his fingers. “Riddler-- stupid”

“Do you not like him?”

“He gets on my nerves. But he makes good crosswords.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Oswald is too busy preening himself, and Dent would rather shout than talk, so it was only natural that Edwa-- Nygma is the company I can tolerate.” Crane waved his hand dismissively.

“Is it a sort of friendship thing?”

“No.” He crossed his arms.

FRIENDS WITH NYGMA. Bruce wrote on his notepad in block lettering.

“And what about 81?”

“Joker?”

“I’m assigned to his case. I’m just a little curious to see what your opinion is on him.”

“He belongs here, no question about it. You already know that, what with all your research on that subject. I’ll admit-- I was even intrigued too. I had the… pleasure… of meeting him before I came here.”

Bruce looked up from his notepad, “Before…?”

“Before his stunt.”

“Really?” Bruce resisted the temptation to shout, no one, not a soul in Gotham knew about Joker’s existence before he took the GCPD hostage. Bruce himself had tried to find a trail that led somewhere, he had found himself in old warehouses, red light districts, clubs and opera houses and nothing had turned up about Joker. Just his alias, dried blood stains and playing cards.

“Positive.” Crane nodded, his body rocking forward, he shifted in the chair towards Bruce, and folded his hands over his knee. “I’m only telling you this because I think you could do something with the information.”

“Well, what was he like?” Bruce said, hiding the excitement in his voice carefully, his pen was at the paper, ready to write down Crane’s response.

“The circumstances regarding my decision to sell the fear toxin were complicated, to say the least.” Crane’s demeanor changed, he drew himself further into his chair, and his hand wandered his face, brushing aimlessly at the stubble on his cheeks. Brief emotions passed over his face, regret and guilt. “I was broke. No grant or paycheck could get me out of it. My experiments, and what I did to cover them up cost me my morals and my salary. I hid the more gruesome aspects of my research, but I was still using the University’s resources. They stopped paying me, I became spiteful. Prolonged exposure to the toxin made me paranoid.” Crane ran a hand through his hair, and knotted it in the soft strands at the back of his neck, his eyes were distant, looking just over Bruce’s shoulder. He felt a pang of sympathy for the man, and made quick notes on his story.“So I began to sell it-- to pay to produce more, and to stick it to the people I thought were coming after me. Junkies bought it by the dozen, they thought it was nitrous oxide. They said nearly a hundred people were affected by it, there’s probably more.” Crane took a deep, shaky breath, his hand fell to his side. "They were my test subjects-- I was going to use it on my superiors once I fine tuned the toxin."

“Anyways, He-- Joker--was the only customer I saw more than once.” Crane’s brow furrowed. “As well as the only person who seemed to enjoy the effects of the toxin, I suspected there would be a few outliers, but outlier is a conservative description for him.”

“Did he look the same? Act the same? What stood out?” Bruce said, barley looking up from his paper as he tried to jot everything down word for word.

“His appearance wasn’t any different, frightfully pale, frightfully skinny. Stupid grin. Irritating, and slightly unsettling, but I didn’t believe that he was violent, just an addict.” Crane shrugged his shoulders. “He still went by Joker back then, I had a strict policy to leave names out of it-- I even wore a mask, but he insisted that I know his name.”

“Why?”

Crane scoffed. “Why? He’s a narcissist, why else?” He paused. “The third time he came back, I became curious. Maybe the toxin didn’t work on him, or it had a different effect and it was a psychostimulant. Anyway, I followed him after he bought a small batch, down an alleyway, tucked into a doorway. He inhaled it all in one go-- and collapsed immediately. This was to be expected-- some individual’s brains can’t handle the influx of the toxin-- so I turned to leave. Then he began to laugh, clutching his chest, at the sides of his face.” Crane touched the side of his face to illustrate his point. “It wasn’t alarming, just very, very unusual. Unsettling, and not a picture I forgot easily.”

“The toxin was known to cause hallucinations, maybe laughter was his response to the fear he was experiencing?”

“I can’t know for certain.” Crane shrugged “I’d have to have access to him and the toxin to do any productive research, and that won’t be happening any time soon.”

“Well, thank you anyway.” Bruce nodded as he underlined the word ‘laughing’ with a bold stroke. “Anything else you’d like to speak about?”

“No.”

“Alright, I’m required to ask the next few questions.” Bruce flipped to the first page of his notes. “Do you experience suicidal thoughts?”

“No.”

“Do you have violent impulses or thoughts?”

“No.”

“Does your medication--”

“No, is that all?”

“Yes.” Bruce stood and brushed off his coat, he paused for a moment. “It was good to see you again, professor.”

Crane stood from his chair, his expression neutral. “My pleasure.”

Bruce nodded and went to the door to ask for the guards.

“Bruce--”

“Yeah?” He turned to face Crane.

“Have them send some of Edward’s crosswords over to my cell, it’s terribly boring there.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Bruce nodded and gave a small smile as two guards entered the room, and pulled Crane’s arms behind his back. Something small-- that looked like a smile-- ghosted across the man’s face.


	4. Group Therapy

Bruce was back at the University a week after his session with Crane, and was beginning to work on his thesis project for his senior year.

Gotham University ran year round due to graduate programs, and it’s international student population. Bruce used it mainly for its library, a large limestone building at the center of campus. He sat on the second floor, tucked in a corner that overlooked the building’s garden. It was bright and quiet, the perfect place for him to work. However, he wasn’t working on his thesis project. Instead, he found himself watching the cellphone footage of Joker’s attack on the GCPD. As per usual.  

Joker’s figure bobbed around the screen of his laptop, a blur of purple, white and green. He stood on top of desks in the bullpen of the GCPD, clutching a pistol that pointed towards the sky in one hand. A look of pure, unadulterated glee was plastered on his face. Bruce was sort of envious of his uninhibited attitude, he knew he would eventually be confined to a stuffy, academic arena later in life, so Joker’s wild abandon was almost fun to indulge in. He saw the appeal that so many of his followers were attracted to. But of course, he wasn’t the type to paint his face and stage a bank robbery.

The video ended with Joker cackling, looking up towards the ceiling, and letting off a few rounds from the pistol go off. There was a soft sobbing sound from somewhere off of the frame, and a police officer’s body could be seen draped across a desk, blood running down the side of his face. It was morbid, there was no doubt about that-- and by now his own behavior-- watching the video over and over again, could be considered a little abnormal. Bruce felt a small pang of guilt in his stomach as the video ended.

“Hey Bruce,” There was a sudden tap on his shoulder. He jumped, only now realizing how engrossed he was in the video. He pulled one of his earbuds out to turn to the person.

Selina Kyle specialized in archaeology, Egyptian archaeology to be specific. She was tall and lean, and sort of the artist type with her short black hair and red lips. She dressed in all black, form fitting outfits that made a lot of the boys in the University turn their heads, Bruce included. There she sat perched on the edge of his desk, hands hanging between her knees. She had recently returned from Cairo from an artifact dig on the banks of the Nile. They had broken up shortly before she left. The prospect of a long distance relationship wasn’t the only thing that led to their separation.

“Still interested in the circus, hm?” She said pointing to the screen with a manicured nail-- even after digging in the coarse Egyptian sand for three months, Selina’s grooming habits hadn’t faltered.

“Selina--” Bruce began, not knowing where to start. His research pertaining to Joker was another factor that led to their breakup. She said his work was really an obsession, and all in vain. Bruce really couldn’t argue with her on that, but he refused to give it up. “Hey, and yes, I am.”

She let her chin rest on her hand, there was a small, concerned look on her face.

“I haven’t seen you around--”

“Since we ended things?”

“Since you left for Cairo.” Bruce finished with a sigh.

Selina turned her head to pause, looking out over the empty library.

“Things haven’t changed much, then? Still nursing your obsession with the psychopath?”

“I guess.” Bruce conceded, trying not to buy into her argument, she still was holding on to some feelings, which wasn’t like her. “But it’s different now.”

“What do you mean?” She said, turning back towards him. He now got a better look at her, she had tanned slightly while she was overseas, and even some freckles were dusted across her cheeks and nose. Soft black hair was swept over her forehead. He felt a prickling sensation in his chest.

“I’m working at Arkham.” He said as he closed his laptop.

Selina looked taken aback, “You’re kidding.”

“Remember the paper I published freshman year?”

“Vaguely.”

“A doctor there took notice, I’m interning there for the summer.”

Selina nodded slightly, and ran her tongue across her bottom lip. “What do you do there?”

Bruce paused, wondering if he should tell. He wanted to stick it to her, in a way. She had chastised him over his work for a _long_ time, why wouldn’t he bask in his own accomplishments for a moment? “I actually sit in with sessions with 81.”

“81?”

“Joker.”

Selina’s perfectly plucked eyebrows raised, her hazel eyes widened. “For real?

“For real.”

“God, Bruce.” She pushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes. “Now you’re making me feel bad.”

“It’s no big deal.” Bruce waved his hand, trying to wipe a satisfied smile off of his face. He knew he would feel bad about this later. At least he knew Selina could keep a secret-- he didn’t want any of his peers knowing where he was working, and who he was working with. They’d come for his head.

“What’s he like, in person?” She said, leaning in. Even Selina, who hated Bruce’s obsession with Joker the most, couldn’t help but wonder.

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Hard to describe, but sort of what you would expect. Creepy.” He nodded.

“Hasn’t he tried to kill someone, or escape?” She said as she looked over his shoulders at his papers. “I think he’s faking most of it.”

“I don’t really know. He’s hard to get a read on.” Bruce turned and tucked his laptop into his bag. “He’s on anti-psychosis medicines, all he does is play solitaire and mumble to himself.”

“Really?” Selina sighed. “I thought it would’ve been more interesting.”

“Sometimes it is.” Bruce said with a polite smile. “How was Cairo?”

Selina brought a hand to her face, “Hot, humid a lot of days-- okay nightlife. I was seeing someone else there for a while.” Bruce stomach twisted slightly, against his will. He had no intention of starting things up again with Selina, but he found himself feeling jealous. She was his first serious girlfriend, after all.  “The dig was interesting though, we uncovered some artifacts from a priesthood on the Nile.”

“Does he go here?” Was all he could think to say.

“Who? Oh-- Right-- No, she was from Amherst.”

Bruce paused. “Right.”

“Well,” Selina said, standing, stretching her arms far above her head. “I’ve got to go, we’re casting some of the things we dug up on the trip. I’ll still see you around though, right?”

“Yeah. I’ll still be here.” He put his last binder back into his backpack.

Selina shrugged her own bag over her shoulder, black latex, some designer brand. He wondered if she still dressed in her signature black while she was in Cairo. “Please still be sane by the end of the summer.”

“I’ll try.” Bruce said with a slight smile.

Selina returned the gesture, and with a slight wave goodbye, walked off through the rows of bookcases in the library.

* * *

 

Arkham was dreary, and dilapidated, as always. However, Bruce was beginning to feel at home, or as at home as one could be in a mental asylum after working in the place for a month. The secretary at the front desk had warmed up to him, and he felt that he could make his way through the maze like halls without calling Quinzel for help when he reached a dead end. He made his way up to maximum security.

A left, a right, two more lefts, then a short trip up the elevator. Quinzel was waiting for him.

“Morning.” He said as Quinzel opened the file sitting on her clipboard.

“Yeah,” She said hurriedly, Bruce thought at first that her disregard for pleasantries was aloofness, but now he realized that Quinzel was just a to-the-point kind of person. He appreciated it, everyone else in the Asylum, at school seemed to want something from him, Quinzel only wanted him to do his job. “First group session, you ready?”

Bruce shrugged, and took his backpack off of his shoulder to pull his notepad from it. “I think so. Or I hope so.”

“It’ll be Nygma, Crane, Dent, Cobblepot,” She gave a short sigh, “And 81.”

Bruce faltered placing his pen on his clipboard, and it fell to the floor. “We advised that he shouldn’t be placed in a group setting for at least another three months, what happened?” He ran a hand through his hair as he picked the pen up from the ground.

“I’m as concerned as you are.” Quinzel said as she pulled a paper from her folder, “But Strange sent me this memo-- said that we should ‘approach an accelerated from of treatment’, whatever the hell that means.”

“You’re kidding,” Bruce glanced over the sheet of paper, there it was, clear as day. “Why?”

“He gets paid more for each patient we rehabilitate, 81 would be the ultimate bonus paycheck.” Quinzel’s brows furrowed into a disapproving look. “Besides, Strange likes to put people he doesn’t like on the toughest cases.”

“So he doesn’t like us.”

“I’m not hurt by it.”

Bruce gave out a short laugh, “Me neither.”

“Anyway, 81 is in full restraints for this session, we have nothing to worry about, and if he’s too unruly, the guards will take him out. Besides, it could be interesting to see how 81 acts in this sort of environment.” She began to walk down maximum security’s hall, past the temporarily empty cells. Bruce followed suit. “There will be six guards in there, two assigned to 81, the other four for the rest. It should go smoothly.”

“I’ll be taking notes, you’re asking the questions?”

“Just like normal.” Quinzel nodded before stopping at the door that led to the session room. “If you need to ask any questions, Nygma’s your best bet, he jumps at any opportunity to talk about himself.”

“I got that impression from Crane.” Bruce said as Quinzel opened the door to the office.

The chairs and loveseats that had decorated the homely room had been arranged in to a circle at the center of the place, near the room’s fireplace that was embedded into the wall of bookshelves. It was later in the evening, shining brush strokes of golden hour light illuminated the floor and painted bright strokes of color over the bookshelves and the room’s occupants.

Crane was the one Bruce noticed first, his eyes were hooded with boredom, but his brow was furrowed, and his eyes were shifted to his left. There, in complete juxtaposition, sat Nygma, who he hadn’t met in person before. Nygma’s uniform was a little too large for him, he was an odd silhouette of a man. Dark, reddish hair stuck out at all angles from his head, and a healthy dusting of freckles covered an upturned nose. He had a boyish appearance, even though he was near the same age as Crane. His legs were crossed, one knee over the other, and his foot was bouncing at a rapid pace.

Nygma, simply put, was a genius, but he was a genius with obsessive-compulsive tendencies and an affinity for puzzles. Nygma enrolled at Gotham Tech at seventeen-- but lost his scholarship to the university after cheating on an entrance exam-- one that resolved around critical verbal thinking skills. Riddles. He dropped out of college, but then applied to the GCPD’s cyber crimes division, and was offered a job. He became obsessed with solving the GCPD’s ‘puzzles’, cold cases -- decided that they were too simple, and tried making one of his own. To create the perfect puzzle-- the perfect crime — was his goal, but he couldn’t resist leaving clues. Eventually, they led back to his hideout, an old dilapidated radio station. He was admitted to the Asylum shortly afterwards.

Bruce also hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting the Penguin and Two-Face, Cobblepot and Dent. Cobblepot was an older man, younger than Strange but older than Crane. He was rather round, and managed to keep his appearance groomed in the Asylum, his uniform seemed freshly pressed, his hands dirt free, folded over his lap. His black hair clean and combed back. His appearance screamed organized crime to Bruce. Cobblepot was one of Gotham’s superpowers, on par with Maroni and Falcone. He controlled a large swath of territory stretching through the Narrows, the docks, and bits of uptown. His mob supervised most of the business there.

Apparently he was one step away from Blackgate, and only got in to Arkham because of a rather convincing insanity plea, and a Napoleon complex that needed to be treated.

Dent, on the other hand, could have been the textbook photo of the criminally insane. He, like Cobblepot, had his own organized crime ring, and the two were known to fight over territory frequently. They sat at opposite ends of the circle. He was an imposing man, tall and very grave looking. Where Bruce sat, he could only see the mangled side of the man’s face. The skin had lost most of its pigment, and was twisted into unnatural patterns. White, slightly wavy hair sprouted from the disfigured side of his head, if he craned his neck, Bruce could see the untouched side of the man’s face. He saw a silvery, clouded-over eye follow him as he took his seat, he looked at his notepad to avoid Dent's judgmental stare.

Before he was Two Face, he was Harvey Dent, a prolific and talented young lawyer, with hopes of running for the DA’s office once he turned 30. He was a ruthless prosecutor, and put more criminals in Blackgate working for Gotham’s southern district than anyone before him. His highest profile case, a 20 person mob conviction ended in Salvatore Maroni himself throwing acid on to Dents face. The rest was history. Dent retreated from public life, locked in his office, and began to pour over cold cases and people like Maroni that he had let walk. It all built up to Maroni’s own trial-- he was charged with a minor assault, and sentenced a month in county jail, rather than Blackgate. From there, Dent decided that the system was corrupt, that he couldn’t do anything to fix it, decided that the fate of Gotham’s most dangerous criminals should be left to the flip of a coin.

The trauma of his facial disfigurement had manifested into an alternate identity that Dent couldn’t control-- Two Face.

Their last guest, 81, was missing, for now.

“Hello, boys.” Quinzel said, taking a seat. None of them answered, Crane and Dent turned their heads to stare out of the window. Cobblepot began to pick at his fingernails, Nygma shifted in his seat, and gave a quick wave to Quinzel. “Once 81 gets here, we’ll start. I’d like you all to think about something positive to start out, you’ve all undergone treatment here for at least a month-- you’ve probably made some progress.”

Crane massaged his eyelids with his fingertips, clearly bored out of his mind. Dent refused to look at Quinzel, Cobblepot continued to preen himself and Nygma continued to twitch in his seat. Bruce could already tell the session was going to be interesting.

The door to the room opened, Bruce turned to look over his shoulder. There was Joker, being rolled into the room. Maybe carted was the better word. But there was 81, looking like a scene straight out of the Silence of the Lambs.

“Hello, Hannibal.” said Nygma as Joker was carted over to Cobblepot, and placed between him and Nygma.

The man was strapped to what was essentially a metal board with wheels, restraints secured his torso, arms and legs. True to the film, even a small mask covered his mouth, obstructing his speech, which Bruce imagined most of the rooms occupants were grateful for. He saw the two guards, Allard and Franco, that had escorted him in share a look, ‘No, you do it,’ their eyes seemed to say. Reluctantly, Allard reached up and undid the straps on Joker’s mask.

He immediately sighed, “Normally, I would enjoy that.” Joker’s comment earned a exaggerated eye roll from Dent, it was almost comical.

“Please keep that mask handy.” Dent growled.

“Harv, come on, baby--” Joker crooned.

“Better be glad I’m halfway across the room, clown,”

“81, please behave respectfully, or else you’ll be removed,” Quinzel interrupted before it could escalate. She tapped finger on her clipboard, “Now, progress-- lets name one thing that we’ve all done better on this week.” Bruce noticed an artificial tone to her voice, almost like she was reading from a script. He realized now that Quinzel maybe felt nervous, Bruce then became aware that he wasn’t. He looked around the room. How many murder sentences were in this room. That thought made his palms sweat. “I’ll begin-- I’ve noticed that my intern and I are working together better,”

This gained Joker’s attention. Bruce had positioned himself out of the way, present, but out of their immediate eye sight, behind Crane, back to the window. Joker craned his neck to look over the man’s shoulder to get a good look at Bruce. He bared his teeth at him, in a way that could have been described as a smile. Bruce immediately looked down and pretended to busy himself with his notepad.

“Oswald, why don’t you start?”

Cobblepot looked up from his nail beds to give Quinzel a bored, unimpressed look. He gave out a long sigh before folding his hands in his lap again. “I feel better than I did last week.”

“Good,” Quinzel nodded, “It doesn’t have to be a lot of progress, just a small change. Crane?”

“Doctor Crane--” He corrected swiftly, out of habit. “I have nothing to add.”

“It could be anything, something really small--” Quinzel continued to push for an answer. Bruce noticed out of the corner of his eye that Joker had turned look inward at the group, he watched him carefully now. A few strands of faded green hair had fallen into his eye, and he was trying to move them by blowing at them.

“Dent?” Crane ignored her, and passed the question on to Harvey.

“No comment.”

Quinzel let out a short exhale through her nose. “Edward?”

Nygma’s foot stopped bouncing for a second before he answered, “I finished that book of Sudoku.”

“Not mental progress-- but I’ll take it.” Quinzel conceded. “How did that make you feel?”

Nygma scoffed and continued to bounce his leg, now at a faster tempo, “It’s Sudoku, I feel nothing.” Even Nygma, who was the more talkative one of the group, seemed resistant to speak. Bruce then noticed that everyone in the room had one eye trained on Joker.

Quinzel shook her head slightly, a small movement that Bruce thought only he noticed. He looked towards Joker, knowing that she was reluctant to ask him.

“81?”

“Finally--” He began, “I think I’ve been making progress with Franco.”

“How so?”

“Well, I’m growing on him. He only hit me twice when he took me over here.” Joker snickered to himself, obviously he only found the joke funny. Franco, at his side, placed his hand on the baton on his hip.

“Fine.” Quinzel sighed, it was clear that she wasn’t buying into his antics.

“How long will this be lasting? I have a visitor at three.” Oswald said as he shifted in his seat, and smoothed out the non existent wrinkles on his uniform’s pants.

“Long enough for you to make some progress,” Quinzel said, Bruce noticed a touch of irritation in her voice.

“I just have an isolated cell for a reason. We all do.” Oswald stuck his pointed nose up towards the ceiling, “The company is hardly inviting.”

“Ozzie, I’m a real charmer--” Joker piped up from his side

“And who let him in?” He tilted his head towards the clown. “I’ll be lucky to leave here alive with him present.”

“How sweet.” Joker said with exaggerated affection.

“Don’t get me started on the others--” Cobblepot’s scrutinizing gaze swept over the circle, “One’s neurotic, the other is depressed,” He gestured to Nygma and Crane, who shared a look. “And we all know my feelings on Dent.”

“Oswald-- this is supposed to be a constructive atmosphere.” Quinzel tried to intervene.

“What feelings, exactly, Ozzie?” Dent leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands between his legs, the nickname was spat out of his mouth like a curse.

Cobblepot bristled in his chair, and shut his mouth, not keen on starting anything with Dent.

“Now that that’s over-- let’s move on.” Quinzel said, “You all have the potential to be rehabilitated,” She looked around the circle, “Think of a goal you have after you’re cleared from here, maybe going back to school--”

“That is enough of that,” Crane said as he stood from his chair, the guard closest to him placed a hand on the baton on his hip. “I have a doctorate-- a doctorate in psychology.” He emphasized, “now, I don’t even have claim over that. I’m lumped in with these lunatics, mobsters and imbeciles.” Crane’s hands shook at his sides.

Bruce watched Joker through the corner of his eye through the interaction, the small grin on his face was widening.

“I think he’s calling you slow, Harv,” Joker’s words prodded at Dent, who’s temper had tunnel vision.

“I never said that,” Crane quickly interjected Joker, acutely aware of Dent’s temper. “I-- You-- you” Crane scrambled for an answer, losing hold of his cold analytical grasp of conversation for a second, “You just tend to value brawn over brain.”

“So you’re calling me stupid.” Dent spat out bluntly.

“No, not stupid,” Crane waved his hands in front of his chest, “Just less nuanced.”

“What’s nuanced then? I’m nuanced.”

“You decide things-- quite literally-- with the flip of a coin, I would hardly call that nuanced.” There was a condescending thread running through Crane’s voice, something that had been poking at Dent’s temper since the beginning of the session. Dent stood, which prompted the guards to reach for the tasers at their hips, knotted his hand in the fabric of Crane’s uniform, and delivered a swift punch to the man’s nose.

Crane fell to the ground, landed on his hands and knees, clutching his nose. At this point Nygma had stood from his chair with eyes wide, he looked between Dent and Crane twice before launching himself at Dent’s torso, trying to knock him off of his balance. Nygma was considerably smaller than Dent, so his impact had little effect. Dent took hold of the collar of Nygma’s uniform to pull him off. Crane was on his feet again, blood pouring from his nose, onto his uniform and the floor. One guard grabbed for his wrist, but time for Crane to throw a punch with his other. He went for Dent-- but Nygma turned his head at the wrong time and caught Crane’s jab in his jaw.

“What the hell was that for?” Nygma whined, “I went after him for you,” He motioned towards Dent-- the guards had still not acted, like Bruce and Quinzel, they were taken back by the quick change of events and the absurdity of the situation. Joker began to cackle from his spot.

“You were in the way,” Crane hissed as he cradled his hand.

“In the way?” said Nygma, his own temper starting to boil over.

Soon, there was an all out fight as Nygma tried to land a blow on Crane as retribution. Dent was trying to clobber both Nygma and Crane at once, Quinzel and the guards were trying to intervene, Cobblepot was busing himself with his nails again and 81 was-- pressing a knife to Bruce’s neck.

“Hellooo, handsome.” Joker said in a vaguely sing song tone, Bruce’s heart dropped into his stomach, his spine straightened and he tried to get a better look at what Joker had pressed against his adam’s apple. It was by no means a knife-- more likely a shiv, made out of smooth, sharpened metal, he probably had used it to cut himself free from his restraints in the chaos.

“Wanna get out of here?" He could hear the smile in his tone. 

Bruce could only swallow, afraid to call out to Quinzel, and knowing it would be lost under the sounds of shouts and blows being landed.

Joker ushered him quickly to the door, careful to keep the knife close to his skin. The door to the session room shut behind them, and they were left in the cool maximum security hallway, alone.

“You planned that.” Was all Bruce could get out as they made their way to the elevator.

“Yeah, and Harvey was sensitive enough to buy into it. He’s got some serious self-esteem problems ever since his accident, you know.”

“You’re trying to escape.” Bruce stated the obvious.

“No, we’re just going for a stroll.” Joker placed a hand on Bruce’s back, ushering him quickly down the hall, looking over his shoulder frequently. “Open it,” he ordered when they reached the elevator. 

Bruce pressed his finger against the sensor of the elevator, and it slid open. There was an emergency switch on each sensor, but he didn’t feel the urgency to press it. They would deal with Dent, and then come looking for them. Bruce was more interested in observing Joker than stopping him, and strangely he felt his heart rate accelerate due to a mixture of excitement and fear-- a completely raw look into the window of Joker’s mind.

They elevator ride down to the first level felt like a millennium-- Bruce could feel the cool metal pressed against his neck, and Joker’s steady breathing. Should he be talking? Asking questions? The investigative side of him said yes, but for now he remained quiet.

They exited the elevator on the first floor, Joker was silent as they made their way through the hallway.

He could hear the dull echo of footsteps on linoleum tile, coming there way. Joker’s lip twitched as he looked towards Bruce, and pushed him down a hallway. The footsteps drew nearer to them, and the clown jerked Bruce down to the floor by pulling on the collar of his lab coat.

“Ah-“ Bruce hissed as he knees hit the ground.

Joker was steadily becoming more manic as they made their way out of the building, Bruce could see that his hand was beginning to shake as he gripped the shiv tighter, and his grin was uncontrollably large. He suddenly felt himself becoming very anxious, he had been too busy observing Joker to acknowledge the threat, what would the clown do with him once he got what he wanted?

The sound of glass shattering broke Bruce’s chain of thought. Joker had busted in the window of a car, and Bruce had only a moment to think before he was tossed the keys. He noticed that it wasn’t his own car.

“Get in the car.” Joker jerked his hand at the drivers side door, soon they were both in. Joker climbed in quickly after him, and before Bruce could unlock his door to run, the makeshift knife was pressing against his throat again. “Drive.”

All Bruce could do was swallow the growing lump in his throat as he shifted the car into reverse to pull out of the parking lot. They sped through the rows of cars, and to the bridge leading off of Arkham’s tiny island. Bruce saw the edges of his vision becoming cloudy with anxiety, the guard station at the bridge whizzed by, he turned to look at Joker, who stared straight ahead at the bridge in front of him.

Without a second thought, Bruce slammed on the breaks of the car, and jerked the wheel to his right. Rubber squealed against the pavement, smoke kicking up under the tires. The back of the car slid out in front of them, threatening to roll the car over. The knife was thrown free from Joker’s hand from the shock of the turn, and tossed onto the dashboard of the car.

Some of the smoke cleared, but the smell of burnt rubber remained hanging in the air. Bruce cracked one eyelid open, and pressed his hand to his forehead, which had hit the steering wheel. His vision was fuzzy for a moment as his eyes focused on the shiv sitting on the dashboard, frantically he grabbed it, and looked over to Joker in the passenger seat.

Joker had been less fortunate, and had a small cut on his forehead as well as a bloody nose, he seemed unconscious. Bruce hurried to open the car door, and gripping the shiv with two hands, walked to Joker’s side of the car.

He jerked the door open quickly, and grabbed onto Joker’s uniform to pull him free from the car, the man twitched at his contact, and Bruce took a few steps backward. The man lay on the ground for a second, and brought himself up to all fours. Bruce stood there, paralyzed for a moment, he could hear the blood pumping in his ears.

Joker wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand, and spat a mixture of blood and saliva on to the pavement. He snickered to himself softly, and tried to stand

“Stop moving,” Bruce said as he looked over his shoulder back to the Asylum, they had to know they were gone by now. There was still smoke from the tires in the air, he couldn’t make out any figures at the end of the bridge.

Joker coughed again, and lifted himself upwards, tilting his head back to the ceiling. He was a ghostly juxtaposition to the clear summer afternoon.

“Bruce,” He sighed, his eyes looking everywhere but him. Bruce’s heart beat heavily against the wall of his chest, unsure of what the clown would do next.  

Joker pushed himself off of the car door to Bruce, his heart rate spiked. Joker rolled his neck, and pushed his shoulders back, an unsightly movement-- jerky and bony. Bruce decided that there was no time deliberate and talk things over.

He threw himself at Joker, and they were knocked to the ground, Joker pulled at Bruce’s hair, trying to get on top, all while they fought over the shiv. The clown laughed, small snickers, wild cackles. Bruce felt a knee go into his gut, and he threw a punch at Joker, unsure of where it landed, but hoping that it was painful. There was a moment where Joker leaned over him, he had taken hold of the shiv.

“Mm,” He sighed, much too pleasurably. “I've had some terrible first dates, but this--” He raised the shiv, and Bruce tensed, waiting for it to embed in his shoulder, but Joker only leaned over him for a second, breathing hard. Bruce, disoriented, kneed Joker in the gut to free himself, he felt ribs against his kneecap, he wrenched he shiv from Joker’s thin fingers.

Bruce held the shiv in one hand, far above his head, and his other was knotted into the fabric of Joker’s uniform. The clown’s eyes said everything, mania, ardor on the border of explicitness. Bruce had him at his mercy, and he didn’t know what to do next. He swore that he saw Joker’s lips form the words, “Come on,” Stab him? Is that what he wanted?

  
Bruce didn’t have to make the choice.

Joker wore an uncharacteristic frown as he was pulled out from under Bruce. His arms were jerked behind his back by Allard and Franco. Bruce tossed the shiv to the side and stood. There was a short moment where they stared at each other eye to eye, there was no emotion behind the clown’s eyes like there had been when they fought-- just a cold blank stare. It scared him more than the frenzied expression from their fight.

Bruce felt a jolt of anger pass through him, for some unknown reason. He had felt very little during the fight except for the rush of adrenaline. He had expected more of a reaction from Joker after being caught, his grand, theatrical escape foiled. It gnawed at Bruce, and he knew deep down that Joker was purposely withholding that satisfaction from him. He knew that he was buying into the man’a violent allure, but he didn’t care. It was too close to home now, Joker was toying with him specifically for some unknown reason.

The clown didn’t offer him a second glance as he was escorted back to the Asylum. 


	5. Blue Neon

Bruce sat in Arkham’s infirmary, on a cold metal slab that a doctor had called a bed.

The room was a cramped space at the end of a hallway on the second floor of the Asylum, there was a small window that overlooked the parking lot, most of the view was obstructed by thick iron bars and ivy. Afternoon sun was scattered across the tiled floor, and the atmosphere was all too peaceful for what had just happened.

Bruce looked himself up and down once more, to get a sense of himself. His mind felt separate from his body, it had since they had escorted him back into the Asylum.

His fight with Joker had left him relatively uninjured, except for a bruised eye and a sore torso from Joker’s kicks. All they gave him was an aspirin and a note to go home early.

After the fight, armed guards had swarmed the bridge leading to Arkham. Joker was handcuffed, he didn’t bother to resist, his head was bowed and swinging limply between his shoulders as they placed him in the back of the van, motionless-- like a scene from a terrible horror flick. That’s what he chalked it up to now-- fiction. It was barely real.

Bruce had a few visitors, Quinzel, who told him to go home, and take the week off if he needed it. Allard and Franco stopped by, and Bruce politely recounted the fight. They then explained that it wasn’t for insurance reasons, the two just wanted a good story to tell their co workers. Billionaire intern takes down high functioning serial killer.

The story had broke almost as soon as Joker and himself had set foot on that bridge. If he listened closely, Bruce could hear the steady drone of news helicopters flying far above the Asylum.

He didn’t care about all the questions his friends at school were going to ask him, or the stares his co workers would give him from now on, but having the press on his back was a different story. He didn’t need the extra attention, he loathed the spotlight being on him like this.

Bruce was only truly worried about one thing: Alfred.

The news channels were making him out to be some sort of hero. It was an overstatement, and Bruce wished desperately for it to stop. And even if it did, how was he going to explain the black eye to his butler? He looked to the door of the medical examination room, his lab coat hung on a hook near the door. He stood, feeling a dull ache in his side. The coat was a little damaged from the fight, torn at the shoulder, and dirtied where he had been slammed into the pavement. Bruce reached into its pocket and drew out his phone.

Alfred: 12 missed calls.

That scared him more than anything Joker could have done to him. Reluctantly, Bruce brought the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Alfred?”

“Bruce?” Alfred exclaimed on the other end of the line. “Thank heavens— are you alright?”

There wasn’t a wisp of anger in the man’s voice, Bruce almost dropped the phone in surprise. “Yeah, I’m fine, just a few—“

“What were you thinking.” It wasn’t a question, just a blunt, cold statement. Bruce remembered when he was younger, he would act out occasionally. Alfred’s face would get red, and he was sometimes frightening when he puffed himself up and shouted in his accent, but the sound of jagged disappointment, with a touch of betrayal in his butler’s voice had much more of an effect on Bruce.

“I-, I don’t know.”

“That’s right. You don’t know.” Alfred sighed, short and curt. “This only proves what I knew to be true, you’re still not grown up yet. What would your parents think of me if they knew I let you work at that place—“

“Alfred. No.” Bruce cut the butler off, unwilling to let the man ramble on about his maturity. Alfred cared, deeply, about Bruce’s well being, but along with the death of his parent cams Alfred’s instinction to become over protective of Bruce. “I knew the risks. And I hid them from you.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“I know it’s hard to hear,” Bruce softened his voice, trying to reason with the butler. “I just needed to do this.”

“Get mixed up with psychopaths? Nearly get yourself killed?” Alfred snapped back, “I should have protested more—“

“You know I would have ended up working here eventually.”

Alfred silenced a reply building in his throat, knowing there was some truth in Bruce’s statement.

“I’m still going to worry about you, and don’t think you have my approval.”

“I know, you don’t need to be so overprotective, Al,” Bruce began pace slowly around the room. “There’s a chance of me getting hurt, so what, what happened today shows that I can take care of myself. I’m still going to work here, it’s tough, sure, and a little dangerous, but I know it’s what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Fine.” Bruce swallowed a dry lump in his throat.

The line was silent for a while.

“Will you be coming home tonight? Should I bother making dinner?”

“No— I don’t know.”

“Okay, then.”

Bruce could still hear the emotion in his voice, even if Alfred tried to keep it detached.

“I’m not quitting my job working with Joker, but I’ll work with him less.” Bruce finally conceded, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.

“I don’t like it, I never will. Even if it is under the guise that you’re doing it for something bigger than yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

Alfred sighed deeply. Bruce wished he hadn’t asked the question. “Ever since your parents death you’ve nursed this obsession with morbid things, and I’ve allowed it. I never questioned the neurotic behavior, I didn’t stop you when you holed yourself up in your room for that summer and found every little scrap of evidence on their murders, trying to piece it together yourself.”

“I was grieving. It was just how I coped-” Bruce said, trying to justify his actions, knowing that he couldn’t win the argument.

“A grieving teenager doesn’t look at the crime scene photos of their parent’s murder.”

Bruce stopped talking.

“I just worry.” Alfred said, sounding incredibly exhausted all at once.

He paused for a moment, “I’m sorry.” He said, not knowing what else to say.

The line disconnected.

* * *

 

Bruce threw his car keys on to the polished black granite countertop of his father’s downtown penthouse, they skidded across the surface and landed with a ‘clink’ onto the marble floors. The sound was jarring, and echoed off the harsh white walls of the place. It then fell silent, the only sound Bruce could hear was his breath, labored from taking the stairs, and the ever constant hum of the now dark city.

The penthouse had belonged to his father, mainly for work occasions, business meetings. It was a home, but a cold and austere one. Bruce had barely been to the place as a kid, but of course, it had been passed down to him after his parent’s death. Now seemed like the perfect occasion to use it.

A neon blue sign from a hotel across the street bathed the noir colored space in a boreal sheen. He tore his soaked coat from his shoulders, and threw himself into a chair near the windows. Rain water was pouring down the glass, creating long, snaking veins that were reflected on to the clean floor of the penthouse. Bruce tried to slow his breathing, holding a hand to his head, drawing slow circles in the hair above his ear with his fingertip.

He was feeling a range of emotions from his phone call with Alfred. Guilt, for hiding things from him for so long. Embarrassment, after the butler addressed his infatuation with his work. Grief, as he tried to push painful memories of his parents away. Anger towards his upbringing, that he wasn’t raised normally, frustration as he made little progress with Joker, shock from nearly being kidnapped. It was all too much all at once.

His arm fell to his side as he looked around the dark, open room. Blue light flickered on the clean floors. He was feeling the exhaustion from the day begin to set in, seeping deep into his bones. Sleep, that’s what he needed, a quick escape. Hopefully his mind would be less manic in the morning.

Bruce shuffled towards the bedroom, kicking off his clothes as he went, he threw his jacket against his nightstand, and fell into the large bed in the master bedroom.

The greyish purple sheets were soft and cool against his skin. Bruce felt some of the tension leave his body as he laid down. Blue light still leaked into the room, but it was less intense. The background drone of the city was drowned out by the steady drum-like rhythm of rainfall against the ceiling of the building, and the glass windows that showed the blurry skyline of Gotham. His eyes were heavy and shut quickly, sleep came suddenly, and violently.

The room was moving, swaying all around him. He couldn’t orient himself, everything was dizzyingly out of focus.. Finally it slowed, and he was able to make out his surroundings, a dark room, lined with bulky desks. Some were pushed up against the doors, he could suddenly smell, a raw, sickly iron smell that could only be blood, mixed with the cutting aroma of gunpowder. There was minimal light in the room, except for a few industrial lights far above, creating bright white spotlights on the floor, they had been disturbed, and were swinging back and forth slowly. He could now hear, anguished groans and labored breathing.

“I have him, I want my things.” said a voice in his right ear. Bruce turned towards the sound.

There was Joker, standing above him. Bruce felt his breath catch in his throat.

He could now feel the barrel of a pistol being placed He could now tell that he was on his knees, sitting on top of a large desk. Joker had a pistol pressed to his temple. Bruce felt some anxiety, he had developed a fear of guns since his parent’s death, but the anxiety that accompanied the firearm was numbed by the far off realization that he was dreaming. His brain was a fog, but he could tell that he had seen this scene before, over and over.

He tried to get a better sense of his surroundings once more, his eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting. He could see pools of blood dotted around the tiled floor of the room, creating a bizarre speckled pattern. There were other people in the room, they seemed to be unconscious, bleeding from gunshot wounds. One person lay behind a desk, and Bruce could only see the body’s hand, pale milky white skin adorned with a simple pearl bracelet and stained with blood. It looked too familiar. His stomach whirled with uneasiness. He felt his hands, placed at the back of his head, begin to shake.

“Life is short, I’m unstable, set the package at the docks and I’ll hand him to you there.” Joker said from above, Bruce turned to get a better look at the clown.

He looked exactly as he did in the cell phone footage that Bruce watched obsessively, he knew every detail by heart, every action down to the second.

Joker was a complete juxtaposition to what he looked like in the Asylum. A lurid purple suit was tailored perfectly, and managed to make his thin frame look flattering. His clownish makeup made him look more lively, in a dissonant way. A gaudy red lip gloss coated his lips, which were stretched into a smile so wide it looked painful and unnatural, but somehow still fitting for Joker’s thin face. His hair had fallen into his eyes, which had a jarring, lucid quality to them. Their pupils were tiny pinpoints, and his intense stare could easily be mistaken for mania, but there wasn’t a drop of madness in them. Joker was talking into a block like two way radio, cradled between his ear and shoulder as he used his other hand to gesture as he spoke.

“Listen, Listen,” Joker said into the receiver, as if he was having an everyday conversation. “I’m in no rush. I only want one thing, one tiny thing,” he pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “So listen close.”

Bruce felt the barrel of the gun jostle against his temple. He felt a spike of fear run through is spine. “I’ll walk out of here, I’ll get in a car, I’ll drive to the East bend docks, I’ll grab my gift bag, and then I’ll be off. Out of your hair. You won’t hear from me in a year, at least.” He snickered to himself.

Static crackled on the other end of the radio, voices could be heard on the other end, obscured by the veil of electricity. “Bring him out.”

Joker grinned wider, and tossed the radio at the ground, severing the line of connection. He turned towards Bruce, and hopped down from his spot on the desk, landing with grace. The clown’s hand reached out, and pulled him to the ground.

The scenery suddenly changed, the darkness replaced by blinding afternoon light. Bruce had landed on his hands and knees on concrete rather than blood stained linoleum, it no longer smelled like gunpowder, but burnt rubber. He coughed as his world spun, it was silent except for the sound of his ears ringing. All he could see was blue, blue sky, blue water. The world shifted once more, he looked down at his hands, scraped from landing on the concrete. He got an intense feeling of deja vu, which disappeared with a sharp blow to his side, dull pain spread quickly through the right side of his torso.

He rolled once, landing on his back as the world swam and the wind was knocked out of him, he could only see the sky. He knew now that he was on the bridge from this afternoon, with Joker--

Joker’s face loomed into view as he straddled him, Bruce could see that wolfish grin that stretched too wide, he was laughing, but all Bruce could hear was the ringing in his ears.

A slight breeze blew a few strands of faded green hair into the other man’s eyes, he paused, tipping his head back to look at the sky, and with one hand, brushed the hair out of the way. Metal flashed brightly against the sunlight, Bruce could see the crudely made shiv. He raised his hands, trying to protect himself from what he feared would come next, Joker raised the shiv, laughing silently, and then dropped it. Bruce could see the weapon bounce twice, then land on the concrete. Joker doubled over, rolling off of Bruce’s chest, and on to the ground next to him.

Bruce numbly tried to process what just happened as he tilted his head to look at Joker lying next to him, face towards the sky, still laughing. He could see the blue veins under his white skin, the scars extending from his pinkish lips.

He then woke up.

Bruce didn’t jolt awake, his eyes simply opened. The ceiling was blue, like the sky. He felt his heart drop, and he looked to his side, expecting Joker to be there still, cackling silently. There was no more ringing in his ears. The space next to him was empty, the blue light was artificial. But he didn’t feel relieved.

He dressed quickly, in whatever he picked from the closet first, and somehow found his car keys in the dark lighting of the apartment, and began to drive towards Arkham.

Gotham was eerily peaceful at night, especially after a rainstorm. No one left from the nightly bar crawl, no cars on the roads, no people in the streets. Except for the light of a store or an apartment building, the city looked abandoned. The hum of his car engine was smooth, and he hadn’t bothered setting the radio to anything specific, static was the only sound he could hear.

He felt distant, far off, like he was sitting in the passenger seat watching himself drive rather than being in his own body. His dream had been so dizzyingly real that being awake felt artificial.

Images of Joker’s lips, stretched against pink gums, blindingly white teeth, pinkish scars and blood were burned into his eyelids. When he closed them, he saw the empty, silent laugh. He had intense dreams, he had ever since his parents had died, but this one set with him differently.

He was driving to Arkham to confront Joker. He had realized, in the commotion of Dent and Crane’s fight, that the clown had been much closer to one of the guards than him. Why take him hostage? It was eating at him. He felt like he already knew the answer, but some masochistic part of him knew he needed confirmation.

He crossed the bridge leading to the Asylum, any evidence of police or camera crews was gone. Arkham was intimidating at nights, its tall gothic spires stretching endlessly into an inky black sky. Everything was quiet, the sound of his feet against the walkway leading up to the doorway felt invasive.

Soon enough, he was in the elevator that accessed maximum security.

The hallway for some reason, seemed longer and distorted at night, like he would have to walk endlessly to reach Joker’s cell. The harsh industrial lighting had been abandoned for a cool tinted glow, it made his head ache.

“You’re really not supposed to be here right now Wayne.” Franco said as he looked over Bruce’s shoulder. “Seriously. Strange told us not to let anyone in.”

“I know I just--” Bruce tried to think of a good excuse. “I just want to make sure he gets what he deserves, for what happened today.”

“As much as I appreciate the thought, I just can’t, I don’t want to have my job--”

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose, knowing that there was only one way that he was going to get in. He pulled a crisp fifty dollar bill from his pocket.

“Shit.” Franco sighed, eyeing the piece of paper like a dog would eye a piece of meat, he shifted his machine gun to take the money from Bruce. “Go ahead. Don’t make it too obvious, or they’ll pin it on me.”

“It’ll only take minute.” Bruce swiped his ID card over the sensor, palming the money into Franco's outstretched hand. 

There was only a shaft of light to illuminate the cell, a silvery beam of moonlight from a square skylight that cast a dim grey glow over everything in the isolated room. Joker’s bare cell was now desolate, the small table and chair was gone, the cards nowhere to be seen. His cot had been reduced to a mattress pad, there the clown sat, knees drawn in to his body, his elbows resting on his knees. He looked catatonic, didn’t seem to notice, or maybe didn’t give Bruce the pleasure of reacting when the door opened.

Bruce swallowed the small amount of anxiety in his stomach, and tapped on the glass separating them.

Joker’s face turned towards him, the high peaks of his face were illuminated in the moonlight, as well as his scars. He looked angular and jagged. Bruce thought he saw surprise on the man’s face. It disappeared.

“Coming to break me out, Bruce?” Joker called, turning to face the glass.

“No.”

Joker sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes closed as he looked up towards the skylight. “Then make it quick, I’m busy.”

Bruce looked towards the man, he looked very fragile, he could now see the bruising and bandages on his temple. He wondered if he should just leave, he over analyzed everything, especially when it came to Joker. There was no ulterior motive, just a dysregulated mind that he was obsessed with fixing.

“Why me?” He asked before he could stop himself. “Franco was less than a foot away from you, Nygma was close too. You could have pulled the knife on either one of them, I was halfway across the room, I was out of the way, a risk, a liability, why take me hostage? You might have been able to get away with someone else.” It all tumbled out of his mouth in one breath.

“Why you?” Joker said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Bruce said, hoping to get a straight answer and knowing he would not.

Joker shrugged.

Bruce bristled, knowing that there was something more there, something beyond Joker’s abnormal mind, beyond the mania and violence.

“There must be some reason.” He said, hopelessly trying to reason through the situation.  

“Don’t you think that there’s always something unspoken between two people?” Joker stood, stretching.

“What do you mean?” He said, thinking back to Quinzel’s comments on Jokers behavior. _Flirtations. He wants something to do with you._

“Don’t kid yourself, it was fun, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“Isn’t your type supposed to be smart?” Joker stood, not bothering to make eye contact, and smoothed the front of his shirt. Bruce could see flecks of blood on it. “Our little tete-a-tete.”

“The fight.” He said, trying to play along. 

"I could have just stuck that knife between your ribs and be done with it all," Joker threw assault around so casually, like a compliment or a comment on the weather. It almost flew over Bruce's head.  Bruce could see that the clown's pupils were blown wide, and his smile seemed genuine for once. He tried to recall the fight, the grit of the concrete grating against his back, Joker's hand knotted in his hair as he cackled loudly, the shiv raised above his head, threateningly close to his person. Nothing was funny about it, but there Joker stood, snickering to himself. "But-- oh," He sighed amorously, "I'll spare you the details of what was going through my head." 

Bruce remained silent, wanting desperately to pick the other man's brain, but uncomfortable about confronting it. 

Joker took a step towards the glass “Up for round two, Bruce?” His hands were pressed against it, his grin just barely reached his eyes. Bruce took a step back, his eyes darting over the bruises on the other man’s face. “No funny business, no knives, just our own two hands.” He moved his fingers for emphasis. Bruce felt his stomach lurch at the innuendo. 

There was a knock at the metal door that led to the hallway.

“Are you done in there, Wayne?”

Bruce silently thanked Franco’s timing.

“Yeah, just one minute.” He called towards the door before turning back to Joker, “What were you trying to escape for, that’s what this comes down to.”

Joker’s open palm curled into a fist against the glass. His expression faltered, the grin disappearing. “All that fun and you still only think about business.”

“I’m practical.” Bruce reasoned. He turned, knowing this was fruitless, that Joker would continue to run him in circles, placing words in his mouth and thoughts in his head.

Franco opened the door to the cell, Bruce stepped back, silently cursing himself for ever coming.

“Don’t leave me hanging, Bruce,” Joker said in a tone far off behind him that was anything but friendly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos! They really inspire me to write more for you guys :)

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Comments are greatly appreciated, and I'm happy to reply to all comments!


End file.
